Chapter 86 Chapter 86
The noise in the arena didn’t start all at once.
It built slowly, like pressure gathering before a storm.
By the time Cass and Lena found their seats, the stands were already half full. Students packed the rows in school colors, faces painted, voices rising and overlapping until the air itself seemed to vibrate. The lights above the rink reflected off the ice in sharp white streaks, making everything look brighter, harsher, more intense.
Cass wrapped her fingers around the paper cup of hot chocolate she wasn’t drinking.
“I hate this already,” she murmured.
Lena leaned forward, eyes scanning the rink like she was studying a battlefield. “Good. That means it matters.”
Cass didn’t answer. Her gaze had already found him.
Jace stood near the bench, helmet off, gloves tucked under one arm. He wasn’t talking much, just listening as the coach spoke. While the other players shifted, stretched, bounced with nervous energy, he was still.
Calm.
Focused.
Like the noise couldn’t reach him.
Across the ice, Marvin was the opposite.
He was already moving, skating tight circles, slamming his stick against the boards, shouting something to a teammate. His energy was sharp, restless, almost frantic.
Lena followed Cass’s line of sight.
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “That’s not confidence. That’s panic.”
The announcer’s voice boomed overhead.
The teams lined up.
The noise rose.
And when the puck dropped, the game exploded into motion.
The first few minutes were fast and rough.
Marvin came out aggressive, pushing the pace, checking harder than necessary, taking shots from impossible angles just to prove he could. His team fed off the energy, pressing forward, forcing Jace’s line to defend early.
Cass barely blinked.
Every time Marvin collided with someone, the crowd roared.
Every time Jace touched the puck, the noise changed.
Not louder.
Sharper.
Expectant.
He didn’t rush. Didn’t try to outmuscle anyone. He moved like he was reading the ice two seconds ahead of everyone else, passing at the last possible moment, slipping through gaps that didn’t seem to exist.
Halfway through the period, it happened.
A turnover near center.
The puck slid loose.
Marvin lunged for it.
So did Jace.
For a split second, they collided shoulder to shoulder, both fighting for control.
The crowd held its breath.
Jace came away with the puck.
He didn’t look back.
Two strides, a clean pass, a return feed, and then he cut inside the defense like he had planned it all along.
The shot was fast.
Precise.
The net snapped.
For a heartbeat, the arena was silent.
Then the sound hit.
Cass didn’t realize she had stood up until Lena grabbed her arm.
“Okay,” Lena said, eyes wide. “That was… illegal levels of calm.”
Across the ice, Marvin slammed his stick against the boards.
Hard.
The game didn’t slow down.
If anything, it got rougher.
Marvin started playing like the score was a personal insult. His checks got heavier. His passes sharper, almost reckless. He scored once, driving straight through two defenders and firing a shot that left the goalie no chance.
The crowd went wild.
But instead of celebrating, Marvin turned.
And looked straight at Jace.
The message was clear.
I’m not done.
Jace didn’t react.
He just adjusted his gloves and waited for the next faceoff.
By the final period, the score was tied.
The arena had turned electric. Every movement drew a reaction. Every near miss sent waves through the stands.
Cass’s hands were cold.
She didn’t know when she had stopped talking.
Or breathing normally.
This didn’t feel like a game anymore.
It felt like something breaking opened .
The play that changed everything happened fast.
Too fast.
Marvin came in hard along the boards, chasing a loose puck. One of Jace’s teammates reached it first, turning to clear.
Marvin didn’t slow down.
The hit was heavy.
The player went down awkwardly, sliding into the boards and staying there.
The whistle blew immediately.
The arena noise shifted.
Concern. Confusion. Unease.
Players gathered.
The injured player didn’t move right away.
From the stands, Cass felt her stomach drop.
Lena whispered, “That wasn’t a hockey play.”
On the ice, Jace skated over.
Not fast.
Not angry.
Just direct.
Marvin was already arguing with the referee, shaking his head, pointing, insisting it was clean.
Jace stopped in front of him.
For a moment, they just looked at each other.
No shouting.
No pushing.
Just something tight and silent passing between them.
Then Jace said something.
Marvin’s expression changed instantly.
The referee stepped in before it could go further, sending Marvin to the penalty box.
The crowd reacted, half cheering, half booing.
On the bench, Jace sat quietly while the injured player was helped off the ice.
Cass couldn’t look away from him.
He didn’t look angry.
He looked done.
The power play didn’t last long.
Jace’s team moved the puck cleanly, patiently, waiting for the opening.
When it came, he took it.
A fake left. A quick cut right. A shot low and fast.
Goal.
The crowd erupted.
But this time, Jace didn’t celebrate.
He just turned and skated back to center ice.
The final minutes dragged.
Marvin came out of the penalty box like a storm. He pushed harder, took bigger risks, trying to force something, anything.
With less than a minute left, he got his chance.
A breakaway.
The crowd rose to its feet.
Cass’s heart slammed against her ribs.
Marvin raced toward the net, full speed, pulling the puck to his forehand.
The goalie moved.
Marvin shot.
The puck hit the post.
The sound rang through the arena like a crack.
Jace reached the rebound first.
He didn’t hesitate.
One long pass down the ice.
Empty net.
Goal.
The buzzer sounded seconds later.
For a moment, the arena didn’t react.
Then the realization spread.
The game was over.
Jace’s team had won.
The noise that followed was deafening.
Students standing. Shouting. Phones up. Teammates pouring onto the ice.
But Cass wasn’t looking at the celebration.
She was looking at Marvin.
He stood near the boards, breathing hard, helmet still on, stick hanging loosely in his hand.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t join the handshake line.
Didn’t look at anyone.
Across the ice, Jace finally turned toward him.
Their eyes met.
Jace didn’t smile.
Didn’t gloat.
He just nodded once.
Not victory.
Not apology.
Something else.
Something final.
Marvin’s stick hit the ice.
Hard.
The crack echoed even through the noise.
Then he skated off.
Later, when the crowd began to thin and the players started leaving the ice, Jace looked up into the stands.
It took him only a second to find her.
Cass.
She hadn’t moved.
Their eyes met across the distance.
The noise faded.
The lights felt softer.
For a moment, it was just the two of them.
He didn’t wave.
Didn’t smile.
But the look he gave her held something steady.
Something certain.
And for the first time since all of this started, Cass realized something.
This win wasn’t just about hockey.
It had shifted the balance.
At school.
At home.
Between the brothers.
And whatever Marvin did next…
It wouldn’t be small.